


the strange idea of continuous living

by shellsinsand



Series: the consequences of light [8]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen, a shocking amount of plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2019-11-14 05:53:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18046760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellsinsand/pseuds/shellsinsand
Summary: Kakashi’s twelve; has survived a war; and is the top shinobi in his generation. He might be going crazy, but he knows when something’s rotting in the shadows and he intends to find it.





	1. a prologue

**Author's Note:**

> the dreaded sequel; I apologize in advance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spring, Year 48

“Kakashi.”

He blinks and squints up at... Rin, Obito, and Gai? The memorial stone is cool against his back and whatever he’d been pondering slips from his mind. He unfolds his legs, flexing his ankles to try to release the stiffness in his calves. “What?” All three of them are tense in varying shades of concerned and upset. The dew hasn’t burned off the grass yet and he can feel where it’s soaked into his pants. Why had…

“It worked,” he says, the moment clicking into place; it’s like stepping out of a fog. The anger ignites, hot and swift, in his stomach and he breathes, trying to shove it aside.

“Of course it worked!” Obito snaps, completely ignoring all the _failed_ attempts before this. Kakashi just gives him a flat look.

“You are a most youthful shinobi,” Gai says, “And not an easy target to track…”

“You went to an ANBU office – but not the main one,” Rin says, meeting his gaze head on. Obito splutters.

“How do you-”

“Where?” he snaps over Obito. His memory of the past few hours is hazy – nothing more than a vague recollection of wandering the village before coming to the memorial stone. His new moniker as Konoha’s Apparition is well earned even if it raises more questions than answers.  

“Just south of the Hattori clan ruins.” He scrubs a hand through his hair – almost as long now as it was before all of this started. It would make sense. Hardly anyone besides bored genin and civilian teenagers go there anymore: easy targets for genjutsu.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve had two of them in surgery – they are definitely ANBU. Why else would they be there?”

“Surveying,” he says, but he’s lost dozens of hours in the past months and now he’s _misremembering_ things. All the careful work he’s done to avoid Sensei… It might be time to start considering conspiracy theories. The whole situation smells of corruption, but there’re too many pieces missing. He rips up a handful of grass, pushing himself to his feet. If he could just _remember_. Fuck, if he could just _think_ –

“We need to tell Sensei,” Obito says, quiet. Kakashi deliberately slouches back against the memorial stone.

“It’s ANBU,” he says, “He already knows.” Rin makes a small, hurt noise and Obito growls.

“You _bastard_ ,” he snarls, stepping in close, and honestly, it’s like he doesn’t listen to Kakashi at all about getting a better grip on his sharingan. In some ways his teammate’s inability to grasp the moral depravity of ninja life is endearing, in other ways it’s exhausting. He keeps his face blank under his mask; that’s what this feeling is: exhaustion. Not hurt, not betrayal – he’s just… tired. “Sensei wouldn’t -”

“Such youthful vigor! Such passion!” Gai says, loudly and what feels to be directly into Kakashi’s ear. “Obito-kun you really are a most worthy rival for our dear comrade Kakashi-kun. One day we must train together so that we might become strong enough to beat him! Then, we will truly be hip and worthy shinobi.”

Somehow, by the end of this monologue Gai is standing between the two of them, weeping, while Obito’s rage fades into befuddlement and Rin shakes her head. Kakashi almost wants to laugh. No one ever expects Might Gai.

“Kakashi,” Rin says softly, as the confusion on Obito’s face grows deeper in the face of the springtime of youth. “Not everything is that simple.” She chews her lip, left hand twisting in her apron, and shakes her head. “You didn’t see him, when you were gone. It doesn’t fit.” She presses a hand to his cheek, warm even through the fabric of his mask, and then goes to rescue Obito. He counts to three, and then ten when it doesn’t feel like enough. _Shinobi are not ruled by emotion._ The sun is setting. This anger, deep and heavy in his bones, will not consume him. He breathes.

“Let’s go,” he says and ignores the way everyone startles. There’s no point in putting it off – Sensei’s either grown out of his, frankly embarrassing, over attachment to them or there’s something he’s missed. Neither are good options, but he starts toward the Hokage mansion anyway.  Kakashi’s twelve; has survived a war; and is the top shinobi in his generation. He might be going crazy, but he knows when something’s rotting in the shadows and he intends to find it.

\--

Kushina opens the door in an apron and what are clearly Sensei’s pants when they knock. There’s some type of oil smeared on her cheek and the smell drifting out the door reminds him that he hasn’t eaten in hours. She cocks her head at them.

“Did someone teach you guys manners?” she asks, but a timer goes off before any of them can answer. “Fuck.” She pulls the door open all the way. “Minato, your children are here!” she hollers, and then she’s jogging back down the hallway toward the kitchen.

“Come on,” Rin says, and herds them all inside. “Kushina and Sensei don’t stand on ceremony,” she says to Gai as they all line up their sandals neatly by the door. It’s a far cry from the normal, haphazard mess they leave for Sensei to trip on.

“What happened?” Sensei asks, appearing in the same sudden fashion he always does. He frowns at them. “You’re only my children when you’re being weird.”

“Hokage-sama,” Gai says, and is halfway through a bow before Sensei can stop him.

“None of that,” he says, smiling, and pats Gai on the shoulder. “Minato-sensei’s fine. Minato-sama if you must.” Gai’s eyes start to shimmer, but thankfully Obito cuts in before any tears can be shed.

“We just knocked, geez,” he says, like an _idiot_. Changes in behavior mean things; kids at the _Academy_ know that. Sensei frowns again.

“There is something we wanted to talk to you about Sensei,” Rin says and looks pointedly at Kakashi. He wants a refund and a new team; his is terrible. It’s hard to do recon when everyone keeps telling the target that something is wrong. The killer part is that Sensei looks at him so _hopefully_ , like he’s so damn excited to hear whatever Kakashi’s going to tell him.

“Before or after dinner?”

“It’s nothing,” Kakashi says at the same time Rin says, “Before.” Sensei shakes his head and shoos them toward the living room. They kept the stupid, battered couch from their old apartment and he sinks into it resentfully. Kushina’s singing to herself in the kitchen and he can hear the hiss of something boiling on the stove.

“Kakashi,” Sensei says, and he realizes everyone is looking at him. Fine.

“I’ve been losing chunks of time since… since Iwa.” He makes himself watch Sensei’s face – the crease between his brow and something almost like hurt in his eyes. “I assumed it was a side effect of my injuries. I don’t have clear memories of when it happens, but I mostly seemed to wander the village.” Sensei’s frown etches deeper into his face, but he doesn’t interrupt. Kakashi feels his disappointment anyway. “A month ago, Gai asked me about my new friend, and I had no recollection of meeting with anyone new.” He swallows, and Rin presses her toes against his thigh.

“You talked them into tailing you,” Sensei says, somewhere between proud and exasperated. Kakashi nods. A year ago it would’ve been impossible to avoid Sensei this long, but becoming the Hokage has been a bigger strain on him than he likes to admit. It had seemed benign enough on the surface that (forty minute lecture about brain injuries from Rin aside) it had been easy to convince them to keep it quiet, that Sensei had enough on his plate. Gai was tenacious enough that Kakashi hadn’t been able to get rid of him, so that had rounded their group out to four.  

“I’m the tracker,” he says, and rolls his eye when Obito scowls. The truth hurts. “It took a while.”

“We followed him to the ANBU outpost near the old Hattori compound today,” Rin fills in seamlessly, leaning forward. The worry on Sensei’s face deepens and solidifies. “There was no good way to get inside, but it’s a tunnel system…right?”

“This information doesn’t leave this house,” Sensei says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Kushina.”

“I heard,” she says, cold and dangerous, and steps out of the shadow of the hallway. Kakashi watches her eyes flicker red and cocks his head. Something niggles at the back of his mind but refuses to solidify.

“All of you are to cease and desist with digging into this immediately without my explicit instruction,” Sensei says. He looks down for a moment, and when he looks back up at Kakashi he can see the bone deep anger in his eyes. It’s clear, in that moment, Sensei hadn’t known about this – and something in Kakashi’s gut settles even as his brain churns. “That is an order.”

“Yes, Hokage-sama,” they chorus. Kushina puts a hand on Sensei’s shoulder and leans forward. 

“The outpost near the Hattori ruins isn’t regular ANBU,” she says. “It’s Root.”


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fall, Year 47

02N47

S15, EQ

TWO ENGAGEMENTS. NO SIGHTINGS ABOVE B. 10 DEAD. NAMES TO FOLLOW.

DECRYPT: HATAKE, K

* * *

The dirt’s soft under Kakashi’s toes and frustratingly quiet - no telltale crunch of feet over dry grass or the scratch of rock. Come on, Hatake, _figure it out_. There’s a breeze playing through the tops of the trees, a steady whisper, but they’re yards away on all sides. At ground level, the wind offers no such relief and it’s hard to smell anything over the dust and his own sweat. The picture is just a dozen useless pieces of information: slightly cooler earth where his heel dug in when he landed; a sparrow-hawk calling at his three o clock; his mask bunching uncomfortably at his collar; something dashing into a bush; and the damn _crickets_. They’re so loud he can’t hear himself think over the thrum...

He twists on instinct, catching the punch across his guard rather than his solar plexus; the follow up catches him square in the gut. His breath whooshes out of him, chirping swelling in his ears, and he lets himself fall. He sweeps a leg out, but his toes only brush fabric - shit. The momentum carries him back to his feet, and he dives into a roll. It carries him past the faint clink of body armor - success - and he plants his foot and spins into a kick. He knows the minute it connects that he’s fucked up the distance, encountering the solid bulk of a thigh rather than a knee. Sure enough, a hand wraps around his ankle and he’s being yanked into the air.

He hits hard, wrenching his shoulder in a fumbled roll, and groans. “Yield,” he gasps, and reaches up to shove the blindfold off. The sky is bright and painfully blue; tentatively, he wiggles his left fingers. Everything moves as it should and he lets himself relax into the dirt. Fucking damn it.

“Alright?” Sensei’s frown pops into view.

“Nothing’s broke,” he says, and forces himself to sit up. Something grinds his shoulder when he starts to rotate it, but he ducks his head and keeps going until whatever it is clicks back into place. “I’m fine.”

“Kakashi...”

“It’s been a month.” He makes himself smile a little, meeting Sensei’s gaze. “Everything’s healed. Just out of practice.” That gets Kakashi a ghost of a grin, but not the tease that should have followed. This is the problem with Sensei: he _knows_ Kakashi, and there’s only so much he can be distracted with pride at his purported “emotional growth.”

“Get Rin to take a look at your leg anyway, you were favoring it.” He relaxes and takes the hand Sensei offers.

“Fine,” he grumbles.

“ _And_ your shoulder,” he adds, digging his thumb into Kakashi’s trap. It burns all the way down to his fingers and he very carefully does not whimper. “Don’t think I missed whatever you just did.”

“Yes, Minato-sensei,” he says, flat and accusatory.

“Kakashi-kun,” Sensei parrots back, and nudges him toward the edge of the training ground where their bags are sitting. He goes, turning a lazy one handed cartwheel because he’s here and he can. There’s an extra water bottle at the bottom of his bag and he upends it over his head, idly scrubbing some of the dirt from his head. It feels amazing, so, of course, that’s when Sensei goes in for the kill. “You should have been able to sense me.” He makes himself breathe, wiping the water out of his eyes.

“I had been working on fighting without it, before.” He shrugs, like it doesn’t matter, like his chakra doesn’t go volcanic every time he tries to find the center that lets him feel the spiritual in everything. “Needed testing.”

“Kakashi,” Sensei says, exasperated. “I know you know the tenants of a safe sparring session.”

“Pfft,” he snorts, dropping his water bottle and kicking into a handstand. “Bring first aid, don’t use potentially fatal jutsus without third party supervision, respect your opponent’s yield.” His shoulder throbs and he shifts his weight onto one hand, blood thrumming in his head. Sensei’s silence is pointed. Judging by the sun, it’s nearly two, but there’s still an itch running under his skin. A need to _do_ something.

“Kakashi.” Sensei pushes his leg enough that he’s forced to drop into a bridge.

“Step two: establish parameters and boundaries prior to the fight. A third party can be brought in to advise if the sparring parties do not have a solid grasp of each other’s abilities,” he recites, rolling his eye. “I’m not a child – it was a targeted spar, there was no ninjutsu, and you know more about my abilities than anyone does. The risk was extremely low.”

“Low risk or not, no more sparring totally blind.” He squats to tap the metal of Kakashi’s forehead protector. “You can’t live in fear of losing your eye and no one on this team needs to go borrowing trouble.” Kakashi drops to his back in the grass, staring past Sensei’s hand at the leaves waving in the wind. Theoretically, he’s right: Kakashi’s already a good sensor and he has the potential to be a better one. In another life, losing his other eye wouldn’t be the end of his career. It fucking figures that in the reality he’s living things are significantly less straightforward.

“I won’t,” he says, easy, and doesn’t specify _what_ exactly he won’t be doing. Realistically, he might not live long enough for it to be a problem; Konoha, despite Iwa’s weakening front, is still at war. If it hadn’t been for the weight he’d lost he’d likely already be back in the field.

“Kami,” Sensei sighs, rightfully dubious. “What did I do to deserve all of you?”

“We,” Kakashi says in his best Obito impression, “are a gift.” Sensei only groans, waving him off.

“Get out of my hair. Remember we’ve got training at 7am sharp tomorrow; a lap around the village for every five minutes someone is late.” It’s not quite the same threat it would be if Obito were in village, but Kakashi shunshins away before he can think of anything else to add just to be safe. _Village laps_ , ugh.

There are times where being in Konoha makes Kakashi want to rip his own hair out – 50,000 awful gossips in not nearly enough space – but then there are times like this: where no one blinks when he appears in a puff of smoke, sandal-less and muddy water still dripping out of his hair, and he wants to be a hermit a little less than normal. He fishes his shoes out of the side pocket of his backpack and slides them on, trying to decide if it’s worth it to find another empty training ground. His shoulder has settled to a dull throb and Rin will be at the hospital for another hour or two. Or… he turns west. It’s been awhile since he’s been home.

\--

The chain he wrapped around the main doors has rusted, but the seal behind it is still strong. He jumps, catching the edge of the wall, and hauls himself up. The chakra barrier parts around him with a shiver and he drops to the ground on the other side, tall grass grabbing at his knees. Everything looks the same as when he left it – from the overgrown gardens to the boarded up windows – so either the locals figured out there was nothing worth stealing or the nasty shock the barrier delivers made the decision for them. Kakashi remembers running through it a couple times, before his chakra was added to the seal, and it wasn’t _that_ bad. But not everyone has his dedication.

He picks his way through the grounds, skirting the buildings, and heads for the pond. The Hatake compound is small by Konoha clan standards, and houses more fields than buildings. Kakashi remembers, in a soft, fuzzy sort of way, Father telling him that their ancestors had brought the crops with them from Lightning. When he was young, there had been people who helped with the maintenance, but they hadn’t come back after… everything. He pushes his way through a stubborn tangle of something with vines; there would probably be farmers willing to work the land now, between the war refugees and the quasi redemption of his name.

“Shit,” he says, tugging his sleeve free of some thorns. It stabs him twice before he can work the branch free and he has to stop to breathe, anger thick in his throat. _Get a grip_. “Fuck,” he tells the sky, wiping sweat from his face. The silence of the compound swallows it easily and he doesn’t yell because the last thing he needs is rumors that the compound is haunted. “Fucking terrible idea.” The sun doesn’t deign a reply; he walks south.  

The pond, when he finally gets there, is smaller than he remembers. A duck squawks at him and trundles into the water when he kneels to touch the surface. It’s muddy but still cool on his fingers. There should be…ah. He stands, drying his hand on his pants, and heads clockwise around the bank, careful of the mud and the reeds. The southwest bank is the shallowest and the grass is short where he had hacked it back months ago. Some of it is still charred from the failed beginnings of chidori. He sits in the middle of the clearing, breathing in the heat from the sun and the damp and the lingering traces of soot. The clarity of it – no smoke overlay from Konoha’s ever lingering chakra – is unsettling.

He inhales and settles his palms on his knees. The grass is scratchy against the sides of his feet and beads of sweat are running down the groove of his spine. He exhales and lets it go, rolling some of the tension out of his neck. There’s no reason for this not to work. (Of course, there was no reason for the acute failure of his last three attempts either.) The energy from earlier is still thrumming under his skin, like it’s waiting for something to break. He inhales and forcibly does not fidget. _Focus_. He exhales and loosens the iron grip he’s been keeping on his mind’s eye.

The pain is overwhelming and immediate as his chakra flares, surging through the cracks until there’s no wall left at all. His vision greys and doubles, reeds swaying – or he is? did the wind pick up? He bends over, closing his eyes, and tries to think of the smooth wooden floors of Sensei’s apartment. They keep being overrun by floods. There’s smoke and ice thick on his tongue; the trees are dark but there’s a light coming towards him. Someone’s screaming over the steady beat of a drum – a voice? He fights for breath, scrabbling for purchase against the short fuzz of his hair. The light goes sharp – then nothing.

\--

He blinks up at blue of the sky and gets his hands under him just in time to vomit into the grass. _Fuck_. His head feels like it’s been split open and burned out, but the stranglehold on his tenketsu is back. _Shout out to you brain_ , he thinks, _for doing one thing right._ He makes himself scoot a whole foot to the right before collapsing back to the ground. It’s been twenty minutes maybe? An hour since he’d gotten to the compound? Rin should be getting to the end of her shift. The grass rustles in the wind and everything else feels very far away…

Vertigo slams into him as his body remembers gravity exists, panic prying his thoughts out of the molasses they’d fallen into. He jerks upright, gasping for air; the ground swims. “Come on,” he mutters, pressing his fist to the grass. “Shit.” List the sensations: the warmth of the dirt, insects chirping, and the ache settling into his shoulder. He’s here; he’s alive. Bile crawls up his throat and he spits into the grass, staggering upright. He needs to move, needs to get the fuck out.

The weeds pull at his legs as he walks and he’s pretty sure he falls at least twice. It’s all disjointed, like someone else is moving his limbs. One minute, he’s struggling to move and the next he’s halfway to Rin’s house. He skids to a stop on the tiles and drops into a couch. The pain in his head has migrated to sit, pounding, behind his eyes and he breathes into it, holds on. Slowly, the terror fades, leaving him hollowed out. He stands, swaying, and jumps to the next roof. Five more blocks…then two…then one…then –

The Nohara house is tall and skinny, separated from its neighbors by less than a meter. He picks his way to the back of the roof and collapses gratefully, wrapping one arm around the chimney and letting his legs dangle off the edge. The tiles are warm against his back and he drapes his free arm over his face. He’ll knock on her window in a minute – when he works up enough energy to lie convincingly.

\--

“Kakashi-kun?” There’s the sound of a protesting window frame, then the thud of feet against metal. He drags his arm back to his side and pries his eye open just in time to catch Rin hauling herself up onto the roof. She frowns down at him, the corners of her mouth pinched in concern.

“Yo,” he says, and yawns. His head almost doesn’t hurt at all and it’s making his thoughts sticky slow – or maybe that’s just the sleep.  

“Tell me you chose to nap on my parent’s roof because you’ve missed being at the hospital with me all day.” He seesaws his hand, letting his eye curve up in a smile. She sighs in a way that’s starting to look remarkably like Kushina. “What’s wrong?”

“Sensei wants you to look at my leg and my shoulder.” She squints at him.

“What happened to your shoulder?” He shrugs, yawning again.

“Just sore.”

“Right,” she says, dubious. “You know you could just knock. No need to skulk on the roof.”

“Maa, it hasn’t been…” He blinks at the sky and realizes he’s been asleep for at least two hours. “Long.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Still.” There’s a beat of silence, her hand toying with the fabric of her skirt, before she shakes it off. “Come on then, let’s give Mrs. Tanaka something to gossip about.”

Rin’s room is full of impractical things: honey colored wood and mismatched fabrics, knickknacks and clothes stacked haphazardly. The first time he saw it – after his eye started weeping mysterious fluid in the middle of the night – he assumed the mess was a consequence of their mission. Now he knows better; turns out Rin is just disorganized with everything except medical supplies.  He moves a stack of books from the window seat to the floor and sits, watching her rummage through her closet. There’s someone moving around downstairs – her dad or one of the many Nohara cousins probably – the scrape of furniture shifting and intermittent rumble of what could be a voice. It’s nice, soothing. 

“Are you still having nightmares?” He pries his eye open and finds Rin studying him, picture frame in hand.

“No,” he says, slouching more firmly against the wall. “What’s that?”

“Oh,” she holds out the frame, simple wood. It’s smooth under his fingers, well sanded, and when he flips it around their team stares back at him. “I had them framed, before. Did you realize it’s been four years?” She hadn’t picked their original team photo, but one that was taken right after Obito and Rin made chunin. He doesn’t remember who took it, just Sensei’s hand heavy on his head and being resentful about being dragged to the ceremony.

“Four and two months,” he says, knee-jerk, and looks up in time to catch her eye roll.

“And _two months_ he says– “

“Thank you.” She swallows the rest of her sentence and smiles. It’s more comforting than he would be willing to admit, the stubborn goodwill for their team that has lodged firmly in his gut – like a fixed point. Hatake Kakashi has too many dog treats in his apartment, dislikes strong tea, and doesn’t hate his genin team. 

“You’re welcome. Now!” She rubs her hands together. “Leg or shoulder first?”

“Neither,” he says, but spins so she can prod at his shoulder anyway. 

* * *

_Chakra and the ability to manipulate it are the basis of almost all shinobi arts and there have been few who have succeeded without it (notably: Sora of the Mists, in the warring states era.) Beyond that, chakra is the basis of life itself, the energy that connects all living things. For something so fundamental, woefully few ninja have an understanding of anything more than the absolute basics. Any academy graduate knows that chakra is a highly concentrated form of energy that can, broadly, be classified into two groups: spiritual and physical. But few, if any, could speak with knowledge about how different techniques utilize and combine those two sources of energy. Almost none of them would be able to connect the phenomenon known as “killer intent” with their own spiritual chakra._

_An exclusive emphasis on the application of chakra manipulation was understandable during the foundation of Konoha and the instability that followed. However, the Konoha Academy curriculum has remained unchanged since its founding despite the large body of scientific research that has been established in the last twenty years. This does a disservice to all our young people, robbing them of a strong foundation of education early in life. As Konoha’s academic and research community continues to grow and flourish we must build stronger ties with the Academy or we will stagnate._

\- Letters to the Editor, 21

* * *

The problem, of course, with implying that he was done sparring blind is that he has to find someone else to practice with who’s not going to make Sensei suspicious. Easier said than done when most of the shinobi left in the village are recovering from serious injury or on temporary leave from the front. The obvious (and horrifying) choice is Gai: he’s knowledgeable about taijutsu and, since the Bridge, is in the habit of dropping by when Kakashi’s training and not leaving. Team Choza hasn’t been in Konoha in weeks though, which doesn’t put him any closer to a solution. He frowns at the report in front of him and flags it for the evening write up to the Jounin Commander. The southern quadrant never can hold it together for long.

“Hatake-san?” Kurenai’s hair is pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, body armor visible at her collar, and she doesn’t make any attempt to hide her concern when she gets a good look at his face. He knows he shares an uncomfortable number of similarities with a war orphan right now, but for the love of… “Are you…”

“Fine,” he says, breathing deep, and turns back to his work. If someone had warned him that no longer being the village pariah meant everyone sticking their noses into his life, he might have stayed the outcast. The floor creaks and he can feel the weight of her gaze on the side of his face covered by his headband.

“Kurenai!” There’s the sound of someone jogging down the hall, and Kakashi silently thanks the universe. Sarutobi Asuma appears a beat later. “We’re going to be late,” he says, blinking when he catches sight of Kakashi. “Hey.” Kakashi nods and carefully does not grit his teeth. Is it too much to ask to work in peace? Maybe if he pretends they’re not here they’ll go away.

“We have an hour before the briefing,” she says.

“Yeah,” Asuma drawls, “And you take forever to eat. It’ll be close.” Honestly, he’d assume his team put them up to this, but Rin’s been gone for a week and Obito longer. Sensei’s more likely to assign him errands to force him to interact with people.

“We’re getting sushi,” Kurenai says, ignoring Asuma. “Would you like to come?”

“No,” he says, copying out another missive.

“Next time, then,” she says. It sounds like she’s frowning. “It was good seeing you.”

“Later, man.”

He holds up a hand in farewell without looking. Their footsteps disappear down the hallway and he stares at the paper in front of him. His brain refuses to focus on the cypher. _Shit_. He digs the heel of his palm into his good eye and shoves back from the desk. This is why they should have just left his name in the mud. Thankfully, Asuma and Kurenai haven’t made it that far down the hall when he pokes his head out.

“Yuhi-san,” he says, and both of them turn to look. He exhales. “Thank you.” Kurenai, like Obito, smiles in a way that takes over her whole face. It’s an easy, forgiving expression.

“We’re all glad you’re recovering well,” she says. He resists the urge to make a face – that’s not…whatever. People will think what they think; they always do. He nods and ducks back into the cubical before they get the idea to invite him again.

\--

By the time he finishes with his stack of reports the sun’s sunk low in the sky and there’s a headache growing behind his eyes. He dumps the majority of the originals into the bin destined for the incinerator, the more critical ones already sorted with his decrypts. The tower’s quiet as he makes his way to the field logistics desk -- most people having cleared out hours ago. He nods at the chunin on duty and puts his notes in the incoming box. Jounin command took over the conference rooms surrounding the Hokage’s office during the first year of the war and never left, so he trudges his way upstairs with the remainder of his notes.

With nothing else to focus on, his headache spikes and settles in to chew at his optical nerves. So much for running the pack tonight. He grits his teeth and jogs up the last flight of steps. His vision fuzzes a little when he hits the landing, blood pounding in his ears, but it stabilizes when he blinks a few times. Thankfully, the tower is more vertical than horizontal. No one’s at the desk when he gets there, so he tucks his reports in a folder and scribbles the time on the front. He scrubs at his temple and drops the folder into the inbox. Maybe it’s the headache, maybe he’s more tired than he thought, but he turns around and almost runs right into someone. He swerves right and barely checks himself enough to stay upright.

“Apologies,” he says, sketching a bow. The man is roughly the same age as the Hokage and has bandages wrapped over his forehead and one eye. He’s familiar in a niggling way, but Kakashi can’t place him past the throbbing in his head.

“Our youngest jounin, Hatake Kakashi,” the man says. His eye flicks to the desk and then back to Kakashi. “Back on duty?”

“Decrypt, sir.” Is he on the Council maybe? Sensei’s always going on about them. “Active duty physical is next week.” The man hums and nods, which Kakashi takes as his sign to escape. “Good night,” he mutters, and heads back to the stairs. He takes them slow this time, nausea building in his gut.

“Kakashi?” He breathes out slowly, letting the stairwell door swing shut – today is just not his day. “What’re you doing here so late?” Really, that’s a better question for her, as last he heard she was in Wind. He shrugs and turns around to face her. Kushina whistles, low, when she gets a good look at him.  “You look like shit, brat.”

“Uzumaki-san,” he says, dry. She rolls her eyes.

“You missed me, dattebane!” The worst part is he kind of did. She frowns at him. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says, which his traitor brain takes as its cue to stage a revolt. He pinches at the bridge of his nose and very determinedly does not puke.

“Convincing,” Kushina says, wrapping her arm around his shoulder. “Eyes shut. Just this once, I promise not to run you into things.”

“Convincing,” he mutters, but doesn’t open his eyes or try to pull away. Kushina’s a lot like a natural disaster – the only thing you can do it run away or wait her out. “I’m not sleeping on your couch.”

“Uhuh,” she says, laughing. “Whatever you say.”

\--

Kakashi wakes up to the sun on the wrong side of his face and the clatter of dishes. A timer goes off and the scent of pork buns trickles out into the living room. Sensei’s apartment always smells like weapon oil, ink, and growing things and it’s tempting to just pull the blankets over his head and go back to sleep. The night before is hazy, a mix of sounds and the steady weight of Kushina’s arm. He’s pretty sure he’d insulted her lineage at least twice, but here he is. There’s the rattle of pills and when he pries his eye open Kushina’s standing in front of him with a glass of water and the bottle of painkillers. She has a bruise coming in across her left leg and both her arms look like a child’s watercolor.

“Breakfast if you want it,” she says, yawning, and sets the painkiller on the side table. “If you’re going back to sleep drink some water first.”

“Mmm,” he says, and lets himself sink into somewhere between waking and sleeping. It’s almost like meditation – his whole body warm and suspended. His thoughts drift to the foreignness of his own chakra, but the accompanying fear and anger refuse to coalesce. He will fix it or he will adapt; the shinobi code left no other options. Pipes grumble with the rush of water and he burrows his head deeper under the blankets. The fabric smells like spring. He breathes in and out and feels the warm weight of fingers in his hair, a dry press of lips at his temple. Someone is laughing. The world is bright and full of heat. There’s always a reason, something that…

He jerks awake, sweating under his pile of blankets and the late morning sun. Kushina, when he turns his head, is sitting on the floor surrounded by a hurricane of paper. The room is so thick with chakra he can almost feel it on his teeth – knows it would smell like sea salt and smoke. He doesn’t recognize the seal she’s painting, but when she finishes her chakra ebbs away.

“Drink your water, brat,” she says without looking up. Kakashi, because Kushina’s ego needs zero help, pushes his blankets off and stumbles to the bathroom instead. The face looking back from the mirror when he washes his hands is reluctantly familiar. His scar – previously a neat bisection of his eye from brow bone to cheek – now crawls jaggedly from above his eyebrow to down beneath his mask, like it had been reopened and poorly healed. The weight he’s gained hasn’t quite managed to fill in his cheeks, but eleven hours of sleep killed off some of his pallor. Honestly, it’s his hair that still throws him off the most – cropped short and growing in closer to true silver than before.

“Enough,” he mutters and ducks to drink out of the faucet. None of it matters. When he walks back into the main room, Kushina is muttering over something that looks vaguely like an explosive tag and he steps gingerly around her papers towards the kitchen. The steamer is halfway full of buns – cold, but still edible when he pops one in his mouth. He stacks another three in his hand and collects his sandals from by the door.

“Kakashi,” Kushina says when he’s trying to remember which pocket he had shoved his keys in last night.

“What?”

“Take care of yourself.” He gives her a half assed salute, hand full of pork buns, and ignores her frown. The key to keeping promises, he’s learned, is not making them in the first place. Outside, the sun is high and not quite strong enough to break up the fall chill. He rolls his shoulders, trying to settle the energy under his skin, and heads east. It’s time for a run.

* * *

9:00 AM – _Understanding Nature Affinities: Physical Chakra and Environmental Adaptation_

10:00 AM – _Medical Ninjutsu and The Second Great Shinobi War_

11:00 AM – _Shinobi Education: Best Practices and A Case For Reform_

1:15 PM – _Intergenerational Trauma As Seen Outside The Konoha Clans_

2:00 PM – Breakout Discussions

4:00 PM – _Can We Go Back? Cultural Shifts In Times Of War_

\- Minds of Our Time Symposium Agenda, 39 

* * *

Senju Tsunade, prior to her retirement and subsequent disappearance from Fire, reformed almost every aspect of shinobi medical care. On the whole, Kakashi’s a big enough person to admit it has improved their quality of life, however short that life winds up being. Sitting on a paper covered table, wearing a ridiculous sheet, and waiting for someone to hit his knees with a hammer he’s feeling significantly less charitable toward medical care as a concept. He studies the door, strongly considering making a break for it, and sighs. Too late.    

“Hatake-kun, good morning,” the doctor says, pushing the door open. She’s got a cheerful face, bright red hair, and moves like she was a shinobi at some point. “You’re requesting to return to active duty?”

“Yes,” he says, and watches her flip through his file. It’s…not an insignificant number of papers. Something catches her eye and she frowns.

“It’s only been seven weeks, Hatake-kun. Given your injuries, that’s very quick.”

“I’m ready,” he says, neutral. “And our village is at war.”

“Very well,” she says, placing his file on the table.

He spends the next hour answering a host of patronizing questions and not flinching every time the doctor touches him. Thankfully, the medical center doesn’t smell half as bad as the hospital does. His skin is still crawling by the time she tells him to sit up.

“You’ve healed remarkably fast,” she says, noting something on his chart.

“Thank you, Sensei,” he says and doesn’t roll his eyes.

“I’ll be recommending you reinstated as an active jounin immediately.” He breathes and feels the nerves in his gut settle. “But there is one last thing.”

“What?”

“Oh,” she looks up at him. “The follow up to your psych evaluation. Perfectly standard. Did you forget you scheduled it as part of this appointment?”

“No.” _I didn’t schedule it at all_. “I didn’t realize you wouldn’t be doing it, Sensei.”

“No.” She smiles and gathers up her notes. “Someone will be into see you shortly. Please feel free to get dressed in the meantime.”

“Thank you,” he says, mechanically, and waits until she leaves to flop back onto the table. _Shit_.

* * *

23N47

S31, SQ

SIXTEEN DEAD, TWENTY WOUNDED. NAMES TO FOLLOW. SENDING CRITICAL TO FIELD HOSPITAL. NEED RATIONS, PLEASE ADVISE.

DECRYPT: HATAKE, K.


	3. Namikaze, Minato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an interlude

On the surface, the hiraishin is not a difficult technique to _use_. The development took Minato the better part of three years and even Jiraiya has a hard time following the seals – but using them doesn’t require especially complicated chakra manipulation. It does, however, rely on a certain… flexibility of the mind, an understanding that space has a suggestibility to it if you know where to press. At this point, he barely has to reach out to find the void and crumple it in his palm until the Hokage Monument appears beneath his feet. A bird startles and takes flight.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, turning to face the jounin lounging on the rocks.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Shikaku says, dark eyes flicking over him, deceptively lazy. “Feel free to come back later.” Minato gives the ghost of a laugh and sits down next to him, passing over the folder of paperwork. They’re not quite friends, but the Nara has tags along with Choza to enough of the genin-sensei meetups (“Pity parties,” Kushina scoffs) that the silence is easy between them as he flips through the papers. 

“I don’t recognize the style,” he says, when Shikaku closes the file again. “I’d need more than a fragment to know what it does for sure, but best guess it involves some kind of stasis component. It shares a lot of similarities with the seals that get put in food storage scrolls.” Shikaku pulls at the end of his goatee, tapping the folder against his knee. “You said the rate of disappearances is increasing?”

“The ones that get reported,” he says, eyes coming back into focus. “Iwa hasn’t blinked over your brat.”

“They won’t.” Not with whispers of peace talks. Not with the Kannabi Bridge gone. He rubs at the back of his neck, ignoring the grit of dust in his hair. “It’s what we would do. Do you…” It’s a stupid question to ask. Konoha ninja know how to gossip and it’s no secret how fond – stupidly fond some might say – Minato is of his students. The sun’s hot on his face and he blinks against the glare of it. What would come would come. 

“Troublesome,” Shikaku sighs, hauling himself up like gravity is a personal assault. He drops a hand on Minato’s shoulder. “You’ll need your favors,” he says, eyes sharp when Minato tilts his head back to look up.

“I’m just a jounin sensei,” he says, tight. Nothing about Shikaku changes, but Minato can feel the disappointment.

“Rash doesn’t suit you,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m going to be late for dinner.” He ambles a few steps toward the cliff face before stopping. “Pick somewhere that’s a closer walk next time,” he says, “Not all of us are as fast as you.” Minato waves a hand at him; he’s not as slow as he pretends. He’ll get to dinner exactly when he wants to and not before.

He waits until Shikaku’s chakra fades before collapsing back against the ground. Given the timing and Kakashi’s amnesia, Inoichi would have made the most sense for the interrogation – he had made sure it wouldn’t be the regular team. But Kakashi is refusing to speak on it and he’s reluctant to push too hard. He could find out… but the worst part is Shikaku is right. At some point when he wasn’t looking – there’s a fucking _war_ on – the possibility of him being the Yondaime went from only-if-Orochimaru-turned-it-down to guaranteed-pending-survival. It’s not that he doesn’t want it; he just didn’t ever imagine getting it so _soon_. For all the Yellow Flash War Hero business had been an adjustment it only gave him more freedom. If the past several months proved anything it’s that Hokage of the Hidden Leaf is as a confining position as it is a powerful one. Maybe Mikoto could…

He snorts, sitting up. _You’re no Hokage yet_ , he thinks and it sounds remarkably like Kushina. “You can come out,” he says, and Crane steps out from the shadows gathering in the Second’s hair.

“Namikaze-senpai,” she says, neutral enough that it loops back around to mocking. This is what happens when you teach ANBU operatives new ninjutsu.  “The Hokage requests your presence.”

“Urgently?” She’s not giving any indication of it, but that hardly means anything. He occupies a somewhat unusual position within ANBU – inducted with little fanfare and reporting directly to the Council – and his fellow operatives generally react to his place outside the hierarchy with cheerful, if relentless, mockery. (It would be different, if the overwhelming consensus had not been that he would be retired and named Hokage immediately after the war is won.)

“Within the hour,” she says. He doesn’t give her the satisfaction of asking how long she’s been there.

“Messenger,” he says, tilting his head up at her. “Who did you piss off?”

“I volunteered,” she says, and the grin is clear in her voice. Wolves, the lot of them. One day Kakashi’s going to get it in his head to join and then Minato’s dignity really will die a swift death. “You are slipping, Senpai.” 

“War’s a marathon.” Constant vigilance – the strain of it – kills ninja just as fast as unawareness does. “You have to hope your mistakes come at lucky times.” She dips her chin in acknowledgement and lurks two steps behind his shoulder until he hauls himself vertical. He takes a deep breath, trying to anchor himself in the here and now. “Shall we keep them on their toes?” he asks, looking down at her. Her mask looks blankly back at him. “I thought so.” He reaches for the tag placed just above the windows of the Hokage’s office. “Keep up,” he says, and _pulls_ ; the ground disappears beneath his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so turns out jobs have a habit of taking over your life - who knew? my sincerest thanks to everyone who leaves/continues to leave such nice comments. y'all keep me going.


End file.
